Moths To Flame
by merlinmercury
Summary: The way her eyes fix on him, like she's unimpressed and hungry in equal parts, reminds Gabriel of Kali. So maybe Gabriel has a thing for fiery, angry women—women of mass destruction. It's really not his fault.


They run into one another at a strip club.

It's some place with a 'heaven and hell' theme, which Gabriel finds hilarious, especially since he can tell which of the dancers are genuinely angels and demons. There are a generous handful of demons in the mix—many of them, paradoxically, dressed as 'angels'. There's one dour-looking fallen seraph, too, dressed (though not very comprehensively) in shiny red, a pair of devil's horns sitting in her cropped brown hair. It's been intriguing to see how much of this kind of thing has been happening, now that heaven's ranks are a mess and the angels have fallen—but then Gabriel understands the desire to get away and play dress-up as well as anybody.

The angel dancer in particular is cute, a graceful little thing indulging a newfound rebellious streak that Gabriel would love to take home if it weren't for the fact that anyone who could know enough about the supernatural to identify him by name is automatically out of the question. Gabriel's successfully flown under the radar so far, ever since his trickster cover was sacrificed on the altar of Saving Humanity, or whatever. He doesn't intend to out himself all over again this soon after that unfortunate fact. What's the point in dying if you can't reap the benefits of everyone thinking you're dead?

Of course, with Gabriel's recent run of luck, he shouldn't be surprised that those turn out to be famous last words.

He's distracted for one damn second—little devil-angel is taking off her miniskirt—and that second is all it takes for him to be found out.

She's got long, bright orange curls of hair and is wearing so much leather that she has to be either an enthusiastic motorcyclist or a demon. Judging by the twisted smoky shape that writhes under the skin of her pale face, Gabriel's money is on the latter. She doesn't need to introduce herself; Gabriel may have been in hiding, but he hasn't been living under a rock.

The way her eyes fix on him, like she's unimpressed and hungry in equal parts, reminds Gabriel of Kali. He hasn't seen Kali since, oh, that one time he died. He'd spent a day or two trying to track her down before it had become abundantly clear she didn't want to be found. Not by him, at least. Much as Gabriel may joke about it all, Kali and the other pagans (even Thor) were family to him, and the rejection—however inevitable it always was—stings.

This demon Abaddon, though, doesn't seem to have that much of a problem with what Gabriel is. They're from the same system, after all; even if they're supposed to be diametrical opposites, sworn enemies, their respective existences don't attempt to devalue one another's. He doesn't protest when she seats herself at his table.

So maybe Gabriel has a thing for fiery, angry women—women of mass destruction. It's really not his fault.

"The brother of my Lord," she says with an expression that gives nothing away. "Fancy seeing you here. I'd heard you were in poor health."

And there it is; always the brother, damn it. He spends an eternity trying to make a separate name for himself, but in the end it always comes back to him being the defector, the runaway, the baby archangel, the brother of the archangels who really matter. Hell, even as Loki he was still the brother. Damn Thor.

"I'm the cool sibling," he informs her glibly. "And I heard that you weren't in the best of shapes for a while there either, so I think we can just agree that resurrection happens sometimes and move along, can't we?"

A demon waitress ironically clad in a tiny silver dress and feathered halo brings Abaddon a Bloody Mary.

Not to be outdone, Gabriel surreptitiously snaps into being a larger, more elaborately garnished one for himself. (Secretly, he switches the ingredients for sweeter ones. If dying taught him anything, it's that life's too short to waste your time drinking tomato juice.)

"Compensating?" Abaddon smirks at the long celery stick branching out of his glass.

Gabriel snorts. "Archangel, remember? I'm made from the stuff of supernovas; I don't need to compensate for anything." He takes a sip of his cocktail. Mm, cherry flavouring. "Besides, this vessel?" he gestures to his body as one might a shiny new car, "Not small all over, if you get my drift."

"How could I miss it," Abaddon responds wryly, and for someone who's spent centuries being worshipped, the disapproval of an attractive woman (demi-god, demon, etcetera) still gets Gabriel confusingly hot.

"So," he folds his hands and leans in conspiratorially, "What exactly do you want from me? You're not gonna try to kill me a second time, are you? That would be so tedious."

"Believe it or not, I know when to let sleeping dogs lie." Abaddon says with a roll of her eyes. "I'd gain no material benefit from killing you—"

"Even if you could," Gabriel finishes with a smirk.

"Indeed."

"I'm not the ally you're looking for, either," Gabriel says. Let it never be said he wasn't upfront about it: he's not getting involved in the stupid anarchic mess that heaven and hell have become. No sir.

"Your reputation precedes you, Gabriel," Abaddon replies. "I know that you prefer to play games in the shadows than stand and fight."

Gabriel shrugs nonchalantly. "Tried standing and fighting and it went disastrously."

"So you admit that you are a coward."

"No, see, that's where you're wrong—where other demons like you, and angels, and the Winchesters, and most of my pagan bros were wrong. Leaping at the opportunity to go all kamikaze and total cowardice are not the only two possibilities. If anything," he pauses, "I reckon your buddy Crowley's the one who's done the best job of figuring that out."

As expected, the flames rise up. Abaddon reaches out as though she'd like to dig her long fingernails into Gabriel's neck, but thinks better of it at the last moment.

"Crowley," she spits, "is no friendof mine."

"Are you sure?" Gabriel baits her, "I mean, he seems to have you all wound up, peaches."

She scowls so darkly it's precious, and he finally relents.

"How 'bout we work out a little bit of that frustration, huh? I'm kind of an expert in the field, if you know what I mean," he accompanies the offer with a lascivious eyebrow waggle.

There's always been a certain kind of liberation in knowing that he's able to make himself as ridiculous as he likes and he'll still be feared. In days gone by, it meant that he could crack jokes all the live-long day and people would still worship him as a deity, still make sacrifices in his honour. Tonight, it means knowing that Abaddon will take him up on this proposition whether she likes him or not, because she, even more the rest of them, is too drawn to power to turn something like him down. Like a moth to flame—but then, maybe that's what Gabriel is as well.

"I've been wanting to try this thing with a whip, a pair of handcuffs and the blood of a goat—but who am I kidding, you wouldn't be into any of that..."

"Fine," Abaddon cuts him off. The glower she fixes on him is so blistering that it could set lesser beings ablaze and scatter their ashen bones in her wake. That fury gives Gabriel chills of anticipation.

"So, your place or mine?" Gabriel throws in a saucy wink. Wherever Abaddon's holed up at the moment, he knows it can't hold a candle to any of Gabriel's regular bedroom settings, seaside getaways, kinky sex dungeons, you-name-its.

"That depends. Where exactly is 'your place'?" Abaddon drains the remainder of her drink in one long gulp. A drip of red juice catches at the edge of her mouth and Gabriel watches it run before Abaddon's tongue flicks out to capture it.

"Well, that depends," Gabriel mimics. He raises a hand, fingers poised to snap. "Where would you like to go?"


End file.
